Home to Her Cowboy, page 1
Eloise had almost reached the corner when she spied Mike Woodard.
He came out of the Old Towne Books and Coffee shop with a pastry box in one hand. After a full-body stretch and yawn, he adjusted his straw cowboy hat on his head. He looked every inch the cowboy. A giant bear of a cowboy, maybe. His black T-shirt clung just enough to emphasize his broad shoulders.
Not that I care about his shoulders.
She didn’t. And she didn’t want him to see her there—not caring—so she needed to get a move on...
But he turned and saw her. Even from here, she saw him hesitate. Then he smiled. And it was infuriating. He might not know it, but last night he’d poked at her biggest insecurity: that she was a bad mom.
He lifted a hand in acknowledgment and took a step in her direction.
No. No way. Her morning had gone from sunny and hopeful to hot and tense, and it was all thanks to him. She spun on her heel and headed, double-time, around the corner and as far away from Mike Woodard as possible.
Dear Reader,
It’s been a while since our last visit to Garrison, Texas—and I’m so happy to be back. We’ve had engagements and babies and weddings and festivals, and we’re just getting started.
Mike Woodard has his hands full. One of the only EMTs in the county, Mike balances his time between work, volunteering as a rodeo pickup rider and caring for his father.
Eloise Green is still trying to find her footing in Garrison, and she worries over her children. Her daughter, Kirby, is an upbeat, precocious five-year-old, while seven-year-old Archie is often tense and anxious.
When she’s reunited with the boy—now a ridiculously handsome cowboy—who betrayed her trust and shattered her heart, she’s surprised by how raw those wounds still are. She can be neighborly, as is expected in a small town, but she won’t befriend him. No matter how many times they’re thrown together, how much the kids love his dog, or how kind and loving he is with his father, she’ll keep her guard up. At least she’ll try.
Until our next Garrison adventure, stay well and read happy!
Sasha Summers
Home to Her Cowboy
Sasha Summers
Sasha Summers grew up surrounded by books. Her passions have always been storytelling, romance and travel—passions she’s used to write more than twenty romance novels and novellas. Now a bestselling and award-winning author, Sasha continues to fall a little in love with each hero she writes. From easy-on-the-eyes cowboys to sexy alpha-male werewolves to heroes of truly mythic proportions, she believes that everyone should have their happily-ever-after—in fiction and real life.
Sasha lives in the suburbs of the Texas Hill Country with her amazing family. She looks forward to hearing from fans and hopes you’ll visit her online: on Facebook at sashasummersauthor, on Twitter @sashawrites or email her at sashasummersauthor@gmail.com.
Books by Sasha Summers
Harlequin Heartwarming
The Cowboys of Garrison, Texas
The Rebel Cowboy’s Baby
The Wrong Cowboy
To Trust a Cowboy
Harlequin Special Edition
Texas Cowboys & K-9s
The Rancher’s Forever Family
Their Rancher Protector
The Rancher’s Baby Surprise
The Rancher’s Full House
A Snowbound Christmas Cowboy
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
Dedicated to my precious mother, Jeannie, who supports everything I do (and write)! I love you so!
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
EXCERPT FROM HILL COUNTRY HERO BY KIT HAWTHORNE
CHAPTER ONE
ELOISE TUCKED A strand of wavy brown hair behind her ear and offered the blue-and-white stoneware bowl to her five-year-old daughter, Kirby—and held her breath. Her daughter’s resistance to eating anything green had become a nightly battle. “One spoonful.”
“Peas.” Kirby wrinkled up her little freckled nose and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “Peas are icky. And squishy. And gross.”
“They are mushy, Mom.” Archie, her seven-year-old son, nodded. “They also look like rabbit poop.” He announced this lovely tidbit of information without breaking a grin.
Really? Where did he come up with this stuff? Eloise stifled a smile and ignored her grandfather’s muffled laugh. Archie was hysterical—which made it hard to stand her ground on important things like eating vegetables, bedtimes, and not harassing Grandpa Quincy’s sweet cat, Dandelion.
“Rabbit poop?” Kirby squeaked and pushed her plate away. “Ew.” This word was drawn out—for full effect.
“Yep. A spoonful of peas is like a little pile of poop,” Archie went on. “But rabbit poop isn’t green.” He paused, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Is it?”
“Archie.” Eloise tried to sound stern. “Let’s not talk about rabbit poop at the dinner table.”
Archie nodded, scooping mashed potatoes onto his fork then pausing to ask, “What about whale poop?”
Grandpa Quincy didn’t cover his laugh this time. He had a big, booming laugh that was impossible to resist. Archie started to giggle. Then Kirby. Even though she wasn’t thrilled over why they were laughing, she loved the sound of it.
When they’d quieted down, Eloise said, “No.” She eyed the peas and set the bowl aside. “No poop talk, of any kind, at the dinner table.”
“It’s okay if you don’t like ’em, Freckles. I do.” Grandpa Quincy reached for the bowl. “I’ll take a big ol’ helping of peas.”
Eloise smiled and handed over the bowl. “There’s plenty.”
Kirby sat, slouched in her chair, staring at her plate. Her big mossy green eyes—the same color as Eloise’s—narrowed as her frown grew.
“Come on, Freckles.” Grandpa Quincy used his most encouraging tone. “Eat up those yummy mashed taters and your momma’s crispy fried chicken. If you do, I might have a pink cupcake for dessert.”
As much as she appreciated her grandfather’s support, offering them sugar this close to bedtime guaranteed chaos.
Kirby perked up, her brown ponytails swinging. “With sprinkles?”
“Yup.” Grandpa Quincy winked. “Pink and white ones.”
Kirby clapped her hands.
“All you have to do is eat up your dinner first.” He pointed at her plate with his fork.
Kirby’s nose wrinkled again but she picked up her fork, scooped up some potatoes, then let them fall—splat—back onto her plate.
“She doesn’t like mashed potatoes.” Archie took a big bite of mashed potatoes.
Surprise. Since they’d moved in with Grandpa Quincy, her daughter’s list of food she would eat continued to shrink. Kirby had always been on the slight side. Her lack of caloric intake was something Eloise worried over—on top of all the other things she worried over. She wouldn’t push the mashed potatoes, but Kirby had to eat something. Other than cupcakes, that is.
“Your fried chicken is like one big chicken nugget.” Eloise hoped Kirby would buy her sales pitch. Chicken nuggets were still one of the things Kirby would always eat. “Here.” She pulled Kirby’s plate closer, cut the fried chicken breast into small pieces, and slid the plate back in front of her daughter. “See? Now it’s just like homemade chicken nuggets.”
Kirby’s eyes narrowed and she sucked in her cheeks as she leaned forward to inspect her mother’s handiwork.
Eloise—Grandpa Quincy and Archie, too—waited to see what happened next.
“’Kay.” Kirby speared a piece of chicken and ate it. Then another piece. “Yum. This is so good, Momma.” She chewed with enthusiasm. “Yum-yum-yum.” She murmured around her mouthful of food.
“Right? It is good chicken.” Unlike his sister, Archie would eat almost anything.
Grandpa Quincy nodded. “Your momma is a good cook. If she cooks it, I’m going to eat it.”
Eloise had always enjoyed cooking. Growing up, she’d spent some holidays and one week every summer here with her grandparents. She’d helped out with countless meals in Gramma Beryl’s kitchen. Cooking had been her gramma’s love language and she’d had a lot of love to give. When Eloise had been too young to cook, Gramma Beryl sat her on a stool to snap beans or shuck corn and watch and learn. When she was a little older, she’d been allowed to peel potatoes or pound the steak until it was the perfect thickness to batter and fry. Later, she’d mastered perfect cream gravy, smooth-as-silk mashed potatoes, flaky and sweet pie crust, and iced tea.
“We’ve got a big wedding coming up this weekend. Your momma gets to work her magic and make beautiful flower arrangements for the ceremony and the bride.” Grandpa Quincy owned Garrison Gardens, the only flower shop in Garrison. “Warden Hattie Carmichael is marrying Forrest Briscoe. I remember when she was a little thing, all braces and red hair and freckles—”
Kirby was very proud of her freckles.
“Only Kirby doesn’t have red hair. She has brown hair. Like me and mom.”
“No one has freckles like our Kirby.” Grandpa Quincy grinned. “They’re good people. The both of them. Truth be told, I can’t imagine a better matched pair. It’s nice when good things happen to good people.”
Grandpa Quincy, a lifelong Garrison resident, knew everyone and everything about his hometown. She was still learning the names and faces of Garrison, but she’d managed to piece together some things from her childhood visits. She knew the Briscoe and Crawley families owned the two largest cattle ranches in these parts—and had a lot of influence in town. The Schneiders owned Garrison Family Grocer’s and were, in Grandpa Quincy’s words, good folk. Garrison even had its own celebrity in retired country singer Buck Williams—now owner of Buck’s Bar and Honky-Tonk.
Grandpa Quincy had warned her about one group in particular. According to him, the Garrison Ladies Guild were a bunch of gossipy do-gooders “with too much time on their hands.” He’d gone on to say their leader, Miss Martha Zeigler, was apparently prickly, opinionated, and “entirely too much.”
Eloise had yet to do much exploring for herself. Between the kids, sorting through the mess of paperwork her ex-husband had left for her to deal with, and working at Garrison Gardens with her grandfather, it was hard to carve out an hour for herself beyond her early morning walk.
“Will the bride wear a big white dress?” Kirby asked, looking hopeful.
“Hattie?” Grandpa Quincy chuckled. “She’s not one for dress wearing but...maybe. I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”
Fortunately—or unfortunately—their family had received an invitation to the event. Which meant she’d have to keep an eye on the kids while she and her grandfather set up the flowers for the ceremony and she’d have to hope they’d behave through the ceremony and reception.
The good news was the ceremony was outdoors. Both the wedding and the reception were to be held under Garrison’s beloved legendary tree, erste Baum. The tree, sometimes called the First Tree, was purported to be the oldest in Texas. Seeing it firsthand, Eloise could believe it. The tree’s canopy was massive, providing shade for a large gathering—like the wedding that would be taking place this weekend.
“Need help, Momma?” Kirby loved flowers. “I can help.”
“Of course you can, Freckles.” Grandpa Quincy nodded.
Kirby smiled broadly, then ate the last bite of chicken.
Grandpa Quincy pointed at her plate. “You did good, Freckles. Ate all your chicken up.”
“Can I have more, Momma?” Kirby asked, holding out her plate.
More? “Of course.” Eloise slid another chicken breast onto her daughter’s plate, cut it into small pieces, then slid the plate back to Kirby.
“Momma... I need you to sign a paper from Miss Ramirez.” Archie pushed his glasses up and glanced her way.
She knew that expression. It was his I’m-in-trouble-please-don’t-be-too-mad face. “Oh?” Miss Ramirez was Archie’s second-grade teacher. Since kindergarten, Archie’s talkative and inquisitive nature had him sitting right next to his teacher’s desk. By the end of the year, Eloise knew his teachers well. He wasn’t a bad kid; it was the opposite. He was charming and well-liked—just like his father—but he was a talker. “What about?”
“Well...you know.” He shrugged, shoving an extra-large forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.
Eloise exchanged a look with her grandfather.
“He was talking,” Kirby said, devouring her chicken. “Again. Lots and lots.”
“Archie.” Eloise set her fork down. “We’ve covered this, hon. There’s a time and a place for talking, right?”
He nodded.
“I know it’s hard and you’re still making friends, but you have to listen to your teacher. It’s disrespectful to talk over her—or interrupt during lessons. When it’s free time or you’re on the playground, talk all you want.” Eloise stopped then. The kids, like her, were still adjusting to their surroundings. And, so far, they were doing well. Archie was talking too much, but it could be worse. At least he was being himself—not clamming up or acting out in a destructive way. It was, in a weird way, a relief that he was his chatty self. “Bring me the paper after dinner and I’ll sign it, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Archie had lost one of his front teeth, giving him a jack-o’-lantern grin. “It’s so hard. Words just sort of...come out. But I’ll try harder, Momma, I promise.”
“Thank you.” She couldn’t resist that grin of his. “Everyone done?” She waited for them to nod. “Archie, go on and pick out your clothes for tomorrow. Kirby, get your nightie and I’ll be in the bathroom to get your bath started in a sec.”
The kids scurried from the room, and Eloise started to clear the table.
“You look tired, El.” Grandpa Quincy stood, helping her carry the plates and cups into the kitchen. “You worry too much. Kirby and Archie are happy little things. You’re doing real good with them, you hear? Just breathe.”
Grandpa Quincy always saw the bright side of things. She tended to be a realist. “Thanks, Grandpa.”
“I swear, little Kirby looks so much like you did at that age.” He kissed her temple. “And I like peas—even if they do look like rabbit poop.” He chuckled, stacking the plates by the sink. “I got this. You go on and get them tucked in and we can watch the news together. Maybe some of that game show, too.”
She smiled up at her grandfather. Grandpa Quincy’s evening routine meant watching the nightly news and the latest episode of Wheel of Fortune that he recorded daily. Now that was her nightly routine, too. “You’re sure?”
He nodded.
“Okay, thanks.” She headed down the hallway to the bathroom. The door was closed but she heard Kirby’s squeal, Archie mumble something, and a cabinet door slam. The two of them were up to something, she just knew it. She took a deep breath and pushed the door wide.
There, on the bathroom floor, was a towel and an empty bottle of Benadryl. A bottle that had been mostly full and should have been locked in the medicine cabinet... Kirby and Archie both spun to face her, their hands behind their backs.
She eyed the empty bottle. “Guys. What happened to the medicine?”
Archie and Kirby exchanged looks. Guilty looks.
Her lungs went tight. “Archie?” she repeated, panic welling.
“I...I drank it.” Kirby spoke quickly. “I did it.”
“You what?” Eloise’s heart slammed to a stop, then kicked into overdrive. This was bad. This was really bad. Kirby was so tiny... “Grandpa,” she called out, crossing to her daughter. “Grandpa, call 911. Tell them to hurry. Kirby drank an entire bottle of Benadryl.” She squatted on the floor, terrified, and tugged her daughter into her arms. Please, hurry. Please.
* * *
THERE WAS NOTHING Mike Woodard dreaded more than a call concerning children. Nothing. Now he had pulled up in front of Quincy Green’s garden-like front yard, preparing for the worst. He grabbed his bag, jumped from the ambulance, and ran to the open front door.
“I’m right behind you.” Terri, Mike’s partner, called after him.
Mike nodded, the protocol for an overdose scrolling through his mind. Luckily, it didn’t happen all that often around these parts. But this, a little kid, didn’t always have a happy ending. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins, preparing him for what was to come.
“Mikey.” Quincy Green stood in the open front door. “Bathroom.” He pointed down the hall, his expression taut and his pallor gray.
He nodded and ran in the direction Quincy indicated. “EMT.” He pulled on a pair of gloves as he scanned the room.
A young boy sat on the bathroom floor, his face covered with his hands. A young girl was quietly crying while a woman—mom, most likely—wiped the girl’s face with a washcloth.
“She drank a bottle of Benadryl.” The woman didn’t look at him as she held out the bottle. From the rigid posture to the waver in her voice, it was clear the woman was barely holding on. “It was almost full.”
